


After nothing is said and nothing is done

by traumschwinge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Shock, This is intentionally written to make people cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traumschwinge/pseuds/traumschwinge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had started out as a quiet evening. However, when Mycroft had received this message, Greg had known something was wrong. The bad feeling hadn't been enough for him to stop Mycroft from leaving for work, though. Greg would never regret anything more in his whole life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After nothing is said and nothing is done

Greg was staring blankly at the pavement below his feet. Some distant part of him was aware of the blanket around his shoulders. There must be some paramedics fussing around him. He had seen them when they had arrived with sirens and flashing lights and much to much of a ruckus for a situation like this. He shivered. This wasn't what he had expected to happen tonight. Suddenly cold, he pulled the blanket tighter around him. It didn't do his bone deep chill any good.

Absentmindedly, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stop the tears confusing his sigh. It only helped that much. Somebody must have taken Mycroft's umbrella from him. He was sure he had been holding onto it just a moment ago.

He was aware of his colleagues asking him questions. Gentle voices as if they were trying to avoid upsetting him any further. He could see Sherlock standing around there somewhere, or so he thought. He didn't even know when and why he had lifted his head. Sherlock was alone, he looked paler than usual, but that could be Greg's imagination. He wanted Sherlock to be in shock, just like him, he needed someone he could relate to now and this man was the only person he could think of understanding how he felt. Not even someone who claimed to be a sociopath could possibly remain cool confronted with this.

He watched Sherlock for a while, the consulting detective standing as still as a statue while the investigation went on around him. It took others a while to notice, but eventually, some paramedic put a blanket around Sherlock as well and steered Sherlock to the ambulance on which steps Greg was sitting. He considered speaking to Sherlock for a second. He was at a loss for words. He had no idea if Sherlock even wanted to talk. He sure didn't want to. Not really, anyway. There was no consolation in words for him. Maybe there wasn't any consolation, ever, just the numbing effect of time.

When he finally had mustered enough strength, he put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed tightly.

–

On the day of the funeral, Greg arrived early. He still had no idea if he wanted even to be present. It was a private ceremony for the family and close friends. Nothing special, nothing official. It fit. This was important, it changed everything and yet it happened below the radar of the majority of the world. Only a few people even took notice or so it seemed. How very Mycroft.

He watched the funeral guests arrive from afar. He knew people would ask questions about his presence if he'd show up. He could say his good-bye on his own, later, when everyone else had and the funeral party had moved on. He just should come back later, or tomorrow, or in a year. Maybe then this wouldn't hurt as much as it still did anymore.

He could see Sherlock arrive with two people he'd never seen before, guiding the weeping woman to the coffin and the open grave while the stoic looking man walked on the woman's other side, stroking her shoulder every once in a while. Greg could only assume that they were his parents, the parents of Sherlock and Mycroft. He wondered if he'd even have been introduced to them if … nothing of this had ever happened. Probably not.

The funeral service started. Now and then, words and fragments of sentences drifted over to Greg, but never enough to grasp any meaning behind all of it. He didn't need to, though. This kind of service was only for the consolation of the living, for those how did seek consolation, closure with the death of someone beloved.

Greg didn't want consolation, not yet while he still felt raw inside, like his heart would rip open and bleed all over again any minute now, at the tiniest memory of Mycroft. And he didn't want closure. Closure would mean accepting Mycroft's death and if he had learned one thing about the Holmes brothers, then not to believe in their deaths. Besides, closure would mean he could start to forget and he didn't want to forget. He didn't want to forget anything about Mycroft.

The priest was done and stepped away from the grave, giving the attending family and friends their time to say their good-byes. Greg watched them. Sherlock was standing a bit aside from the rest of them. He looked unmoved. With some effort, Greg tore his eyes away from him, focusing on the coffin again. He didn't look away from it until they started lowering it. Then, he turned and left. He didn't have to watch them bury an empty coffin.

–

Greg had sought out the pub nearest to the churchyard. Initially, he had planned on going home right away; however, he had felt the urge to have a drink the moment he spotted the pub right opposite to the lychgate. Maybe drinking himself into a stupor would help him feeling better. There wasn't much to get worse now.

He found himself a nice little table in a dark corner once he'd gotten his beer. He wasn't in a hurry to drink it. He just nursed on it for a while, forcing himself to resist the urge to get to the counter again and ask for a shot or five. No, it wouldn't do any good if he'd get drunk in public. He should just pick up a couple of bottles of any cheap alcohol on the way home and drink there. Surely somebody would come looking for him after a few days if he overdid it.

He was nursing on his second, or maybe third, pint when somebody pulled the chair on the other side of the table back.

“This seat is taken,” Greg mumbled, but it wasn't enough to shoo the stranger away. Yet it wasn't a stranger. It was Sherlock, wearing an unreadable look on his face. Greg sighed. He was the last person he wanted to see now. And the only one.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Sherlock said, his voice plain, not betraying any emotion. But Greg appreciated that Sherlock reached out to him and squeezed his lower arm lightly.

Still, he couldn't bite back a bitter laugh. “That should be me telling you,” he said. He took another sip of his beer. “What do you want? Shouldn't you be consoling you parents or something?”

“And letting the only person my brother ever cared about drink himself to death? I don't think so, Greg,” Sherlock stated.

Greg couldn't help but blink. “What did you call me just now?”

“Greg. That's your name. Gregory Lestrade, or Greg for everyone you consider your friend and me,” Sherlock repeated, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“You never called me Greg before,” Greg said. “It's always Gravin here, Geoff there, occasionally even Graham. But you almost never called me Greg before.”

“Is this important now?” Sherlock huffed. “Fine, if it helps you, I just did it to piss my brother off. Are you happy now?'

Greg shook his head. Any other day, under any other circumstances he would be happy with Sherlock admitting one of his quirks. But today, it only stung. So even Sherlock believed in his brother's death. Somehow, this made everything even harder.

“Greg, there's something I wanted to give you back,” Sherlock sighed, displaying concern and a cordial kind of grief Greg was fairly certain that Sherlock wasn't capable of. But all his thoughts went blank when he recognized the object Sherlock just had placed on the table. His hands shaking, Greg took the umbrella and held it close.

“They gave it to me when the investigations where over,” Sherlock explained though Greg could barely hear him. “I knew you had it when … after... that they took it from you. So I thought I should give it back to you. Because it somehow … well, it should be yours, I thought.”

“Sherlock?” Greg whispered. “You can shut up now. And...thank you.”

He had no idea when Sherlock left. He did care what the other people in the bar thought of him. He simply clutched the umbrella close and wept, for the first time since that terrible night.

However, no matter what everyone else was thinking, there was one thing Greg was certain about. He did believe in Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
